


Black Sunsets

by HanginWithLilJ (FlyDizzeeD)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Animal Death, Graphic Description of Corpses, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Small Towns, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves, the 80's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-13 19:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17494022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyDizzeeD/pseuds/HanginWithLilJ
Summary: Dead livestock and strange shadows are just a few of the strange happenings on the Ramsey-Pattillo farm. Unfortunately, it's up to Geoff to figure it all out.





	1. Chapter 1

Geoff carefully runs his fingers along bloody feathers, cursing.

“Third one this week.”

“Might be time we take Robert up on his offer.”

He turns around to look at Jack, who's standing away from where he's crouched over a puddle of blood and feathers.

“What if it just kills the dog?”

Jack shrugs. “He said his have handled more coyotes than he can count. It's Wednesday, so he'll probably be around the feed store before church this evening. Want me to swing by later?”

“... I guess. I'll go with, too. We need more grit for the hens and probably some other shit I can't remember.”

His back pops as he stands back up and stretches, glancing back at the mess on the ground outside the chicken coop. The sun has only been up for a few hours, which means he's been up just as long. Whatever coyote that's been stealing his chickens seems to be smart enough to wait until after the sun is up and the chickens are let out of the coop to wander and graze their plot. He shakes his head, trying to knock loose and rid himself of the suffering shriek the poor bird had made before it was dragged off into the woods surround the small farm.

He feels a hand gently take his and looks down to see their wedding bands brush together. The silver catches the light and gleams in contrast to the dark ink on his fingers.

“Come on.” Jack says. “You've been up for hours and haven't even had breakfast. I'll make something.”

“But the goats--”

“Geoffrey Lazer Ramsey, the goats will be fine, but you won't be if you go another day only eating dinner.”

He looks away from their hands and grins at Jack, winking.

“Love when you middle name me.”

The grin only gets wider, then broken by a laugh, at Jack's eye roll and groan. Jack starts to head towards the house, switching hands so he can drag him along. Geoff makes them pause in the doorway, just long enough that he can wind his free hand through Jack's hair and pull him in for a kiss. Neither notice the dark shadow just beyond the edge of the tree line, too caught up in one another.

\---

It's around supper time when they head into town. They take Geoff's beaten up F-150, trying to ignore what sounds like a belt needing to be replaced soon. Jack keeps saying he's gonna take it to the mechanic, but money is rough. He winces at the shrill squealing from the front end as they park in front of the store.

“I don't see his car around.” Geoff says as he gets out, glancing up and down the street.

“He might've walked.”

Geoff snorts.

“That lazy fuck? He's probably passed out in his armchair while Trudy figures out how to poison his gin.”

That gets a chuckle from Jack, who moves to hold the door open for him. “The shit he drinks might as well be poison. Any day now he'll wake up blind, dead, or worse.”

“What's worse?”

“Employed.”

The two laugh together as they wander the aisles of the feed store. Geoff grabs a heavy bag of grit off the shelf and hands it to Jack, then sets an even heavier back of chick starter on that. When Jack raises an eyebrow, he explains that a few of the hens have been broody and he's gonna let them get some soon so he can have chicks for the spring market. They walk as they talk, conversation ranging from livestock to sports to family. The store is empty aside from them and the clerk, what with the rest of their small town finishing up supper so they can head to church. Once Jack is properly loaded up and refuses to carry more shit, they head to the counter.

“That all today, Geoff?”

“It is unless you have something that'll kill every coyote in the forest.”

The clerk barks a laugh as he totals up the order.

“Afraid not. You been havin’ trouble with 'em?”

“Three chickens this week alone. I wanna get it handled before I start having chicks walking around, y’know?”

Before the man behind the counter can respond, the light chime of a bell interrupts them. All three look over to see who's coming in the store, but neither Geoff nor Jack recognize the young man. The clerk, however, smiles.

“Welcome back… Jerry?”

“Jeremy.” He corrects, already looking around the aisles.

“Ah. Sorry about that. You looking for anything in particular?”

“Ya got anything for mice?”

Geoff furrows his eyebrows at the man's accent, trying to place it while the clerk tells him where the mouse traps are. It's so familiar but feels slightly off. He mulls it over while he pulls out his wallet and hands over however much the clerk asks for, trying not to think too hard about the money, not really needing the stress today. He shoves the receipt in his wallet alongside the change and is about to take one of the bags when Jeremy comes back over with multiple mouse traps in his arms. Suddenly, Geoff perks up.

“Are you from Jersey?”

Jeremy barely looks at him. “Boston.”

“Damn. Then why the hell would you be somewhere like this?”

The brash tone, which Geoff knows contrasts so highly with most of the folks in this town, seems to be more familiar to Jeremy. He's less clipped and twitchy when he responds.

“My uncle died and left me a hunting cabin around here. I'm trying to get it fixed up so I can sell it.” He looks at Geoff more directly. “You interested in a hunting cabin? Comes with 50 acres.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry, man. One mortgage is enough. I'm Geoff, by the way”

Jeremy sighs and looks to Jack. “I'm guessing you're not interested either.”

Jack tosses him a sympathetic look. “I'm paying the same mortgage as this one. Also, I’m Jack. Nice to meet you.” The younger man deflates at that, but nods in understanding.

“Worth a shot. I guess buying all these mouse traps probably doesn't make it seem too warming either, huh?” He jokes as he sets the traps on the counter next to their purchases. The clerk starts counting them up and they finally grab their stuff to make more room.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Jerry.” Geoff says as they start to leave the store.

“Jeremy.”

“That's what I said, Larry.”

The Bostonian looks like he's about to get pissed, but the shit-eating grin on Geoff's face makes him bite his lip to hold back his own smile. “Nice meeting you, too, Brett. Jack.” He nods to them in turn, then focuses back on making his purchase while the two leave.

They toss the heavy bags in the bed of the pick-up, then get back in. The truck screeches as the engine turns on, but both are relieved when said engine stays on anyway. Jack turns the headlights on and relaxes in the driver's seat as they head out of town and onto the long, pothole-riddled road that leads back home. He listens to Geoff's ramblings about the album his friend recently sent him, _Millions of Dead Cops_ , always glad to hear the man's thoughts on the punk scene he's been into for as long as they've known one another. It takes about half an hour for them to get home, the sun setting by the time they pull up the gravel driveway, park outside the house, and start carrying the bags to the shed by the chicken coop.

All conversation dies, leaving only stunned silence in its wake when they turn the corner and find the half-eaten corpse of a goat. The entire rear end is gone, brutally torn apart and dragged off, judging by the streaks of blood staining the grass and ending at the tree line. There are massive teeth marks on the throat of the animal, and one of the remaining legs is broken. When Geoff's voice finally breaks the silence, it's quiet and shaky.

“Go get my gun.”


	2. Chapter 2

There's no sleep for Geoff that night. He takes a chair from the kitchen and sets it out by the barn, perpendicular to the chicken coop and facing the clearing between there and the forest. Even in the dark, it's a clear line of sight. The rifle lays across his lap, a box of ammo and thermos of coffee on the ground next to him. And he waits. Silently. He tenses up at every noise, every flicker of movement. Hours pass by, but moments run together when they all look so alike.

It's midnight when the howling starts, but he left his watch inside so he doesn't know it. At first it's just a few loud yips in the distance, but gradually it builds. There's a whole pack out there, a pack of screaming, crying coyotes who are revelling in their own noise. It's impossible for him to know how many, or why they're so intent on causing such a raucous in the first place, but the long calls send needles through his skin that thread icy through his veins. He breaks his concentration on the field in front of him just long enough to look up at the moon, blue eyes meeting pale white light.

Above the high-pitched laughter of the coyotes, yet far below them in pitch, a different voice calls to that same moon.

He feels frozen in place. The long, low howl slices cleanly through the cacophony and has an effect so strong as to silence them entirely. All yelping and yiping stops, harsh and startled, to make way for the newcomer. Geoff suddenly wants to throw up. The howl is beautiful. It's damn near musical the way it rises and falls through the air, littering low notes through the stars of the clear night sky. But the song wreaks havoc on his mind, nails on a chalkboard inside his skull. His grip on the rifle is ironclad, knuckles going white at the strain.

Seemingly decades after it began, the song ends. It feels as though years have passed by, time torn apart by the violent, soothing melody and dragged off beyond the tree line to be eaten piece by piece, leaving Geoff with nothing more than a pile of blood-soaked seconds.

Part of him wants to go back inside. He wants to lock the doors, shutter the windows, and curl up in Jack's arms, as safe as he can get. But he thinks of the goat. His chickens. The bills he has to pay that he can't cover without the income from the livestock. In spite of the cold, heavy weight of the fear in his gut, he remains. His eyes become more frantic as the moments drag on, darting around for any sign of the livestock murderer.

_Snap._

Geoff lurches to his feet, whipping around so fast the barrel of the rifle hits the chair and knocks it over. The thud of the chair hitting the cold ground cracks through the silent forest nearly as harsh as the snapping branch. Geoff aims the rifle into the dark trees, hands shaking too much for the iron sights to be of much use. His heart is beating out of his chest and crawling up his throat.

He sees the shadow.

He sees the eyes, shiny and piercing.

And he fires.

The gunshot tears through the air just the same as the bullet itself, and Geoff thinks about just how much he hates this entire situation. He hates guns. He hates being terrified. And he hates whatever is hiding in those woods most of all, because it's the cause of all of this. He quickly chambers another cartridge, the lever action rifle loading quickly with a _click_ that seems muted in comparison. Taking a deep breath, he starts towards the direction he'd shot in, cursing himself for not taking a flashlight.

All around him, the world seems still. Caught in statis, waiting for some new element, some sudden shift in the way things work to spin the planet back into orbit. But it doesn't come tonight, not as his steps snap twigs and fall light on damp grass, his legs working while his brain barely follows suit.

He has to pause before he breaks through the tree line. The air around him is thick, almost too hard to pull into his frantic lungs, as he tries to ground himself. Already regretting his entire existence, Geoff lifts his foot, then brings his heavy boot down on the thick brush forming a barrier between him and the thousands of acres of Hell just beyond his peaceful slice of country.

The crunch makes him flinch. But he continues forward, picking up the pace, knowing that if he glances back for even a second that he won't be able to do this. He's already barely managing as it is.

He has to squint, but he can make out trampled undergrowth. Slowly, he follows the trail, barely looking up. His eyes are fixed solely on the ground, desperate to not lose the trail, terrified of what he might see if he looks anywhere else. Silence is broken by the occasional hoot of an owl, or shifting of a branch. Every noise sends a rush of cold, sharp fear down his spine, settling as a rock in the pit of his stomach. He's about 20 yards into the dense forest when he hears it.

Breathing.

Harsh, ragged breathing. Panting, really, and desperate at that. Some… _thing_ , dragging in cool night air and huffing it out in short puffs.

Geoff's legs won't move. He can't make them. He's stuck, paralyzed by personified dread. His own breathing is picking up speed. It takes every ounce of strength in his body to tilt his head up and face the source of all his terror.

Piercing eyes glowing a bright red, bearing down on him, the only thing visible from the tangle of briars and branches the beast hides behind. And just below those two neon spots in the otherwise dark forest: a body. Geoff barely registers the deer, dead with a bloody bullet wound just behind the shoulder. Between the two red eyes, the crown tine of an antler juts up, begging Geoff's gaze to follow it down the main beam and pull his attention away from those eyes and along sleek bone instead. He resists the urge, fingers twitching against the cool metal of the rifle still in his hands.

The red disappears for a fraction of a second, and some part of him is ridiculously relieved that the creature has to blink. It makes him feel slightly less like he's about to be ripped to shreds by some demon that he never should have followed in the first place. That moment of relief is pulled out of his grasp when the next blink never ends, the brush rustles, and it feels like the temperature around him has plummeted.

A scream rips through his throat and destroys the awful serenity of the forest as something touches his shoulder.

He spins around, losing his balance and landing on his ass on the ground, the rifle slipping from his hands and skidding a few feet away on the grass, coming to a stop when it smacks into a tree trunk. There's warmth against his lower back, his shirt is suddenly wet, and he tries not to immediately throw up when his mind connects the feeling to the bloody deer carcass behind him. Geoff's eyes squeeze shut, arms coming up to cover his head in some desperate, futile attempt to keep himself alive. Moments pass, and he can hear his heartbeat pounding like amped up bass in his ears, but he doesn't feel any teeth or claws sinking into his flesh. Instead, he feels nothing but the same cold air, seconds dragging on like hours before he gains enough sense back to make out the new noise in front of him.

“Geoff? Come on, Geoff, please look at me. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle-- fuck, I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Geoff, please. It's me, babe, it's Jack, c'mon.”

It takes him longer to really make sense of the words. When he finally understands, he slowly lowers his arms and opens his eyes. Jack's panicked face blocks out the rest of the world. He lunges forward, wrapping his arms around the other man, hands fisting into his jacket with a white-knuckled grip. The feeling of strong arms hugging him right back makes him shiver, a sob catching in his throat. Jack is shushing him, running skilled fingers through his hair as he cries into his shoulder, the cathartic feeling of such sudden safety overwhelming him.

He doesn't know how long it is before Jack stands up, pulling him to his feet then picking him up entirely, letting Geoff cling to him as he carries him out of the woods. The second they cross the tree line and step back into the clearing of their little farm, it feels like a crushing weight has been lifted off his chest.

Being set down on their bed suddenly makes him realize just how exhausted he is. Jack takes off both of their boots and jackets before joining him in bed, holding him close and keeping the shadow away.

For now.


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t wanna talk about it, Jack, seriously.”

As if to prove his point, Geoff shoves the rest of his piece of bacon in his mouth. He tries to ignore Jack’s sigh. He knows the man is just concerned for him, but he’s still half-convinced that last night was all in his imagination. Sleep-deprived hallucinations of some god damn monster. The stress must be getting to him worse than he thought.

“Fine. I’ll pretend I didn’t drag you out of the woods, screaming and having the worst panic attack I’ve ever seen,” Jack sits across from them at their small dining table, sips his coffee, then looks Geoff in the eyes, “but you left the gun there, and we can’t afford a new one.”

Geoff goes still. The rifle. He dropped it at some point and it’s probably still sitting next to…

“Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed.”

He groans, rubbing at his eyes, heavy with a worse tiredness than usual. His sleep had not been easy dreams and happy slumber.

“We should probably call Burnie. It’s out of season and he’s been working really hard on his management plan.”

It takes a moment for Geoff to process the sentence. His brain is not working at top speed. Burnie. Dead deer. Why-- Ah. Right. Warden. They deal with dead shit. He perks up some when he realizes Burnie lives pretty far, so having to wait on him means more time before he has to go look at the dead animal. Nodding, he knocks back the rest of his coffee, grimacing at the burn but feeling more like himself as the caffeine works its way through his body.

“I’m gonna go check on the ladies. Have fun with your phone call.” Geoff says with a wink as he stands up and stretches. He comes around the table and leans down to catch a quick kiss from Jack, wiping the annoyed look off the younger man’s face. Jack rolls his eyes and stands up himself as Geoff walks out of the kitchen, calling behind him.

“You could call him yourself, y’know.”

Spinning on his heel, Geoff shoots pistol fingers and a wink at Jack while he keeps moving backwards to the front door.

“Phone cord doesn’t reach the chicken coop, babe.”

He faces forward in time to avoid tripping into the couch, dodging around the atrocious checker patterned furniture and grabbing his coat off the hanger by the door. The sun is barely up, so it’s still plenty cold out. He pulls the old, worn thing on and opens the door, ready to start the day and put some of last night behind him.

The man standing just on the other side, fist raised to knock, startles the living hell out of him.

Jack’s approaching footsteps are audible from elsewhere in the house, no doubt scrambling to see what the fuck has made Geoff screech this time. Geoff, for his part, is trying to calm his racing heart when he recognizes the man in his doorway.

“Terry?!”

The shorter man’s expression goes from apologetic to annoyed. He sighs at Geoff, shaking his head. Geoff sees Jack’s head peek over his own shoulder.

“Hey Jeremy.”

Geoff reels again and screeches in the exact same tone.

“Jeremy?!”

They both roll their eyes at him, but a moment later Jeremy answers the question neither of them have asked aloud yet.

“The clerk at the feed store gave me your address.”

Geoff curses. “Fuckin’ Tyler.”

“I’m guessing there’s a reason you stalked our address from a cashier?” Jack asks, his arm idly settling around Geoff’s waist.

“Uh. Yes. Yeah. Do you-- Tyler said you’re having a coyote problem.”

“Tyler sure does like to share.”

Jack pinches Geoff’s hip.

“We are, yeah. Are they giving you trouble, too?”

“Yes. Well, no.” Jeremy scratches the back of his neck and thinks for a moment before he continues. “They were. But I took care of them. I was wondering if maybe I could lend a hand? It’s the, uh, neighborly thing to do. Right?”

The looks Jack tosses at him is a clear indicator that he wants them to talk about it together before agreeing to anything, but Geoff is busy being so happy he’s tempted to suck the man off as a thank you.

“Yes,” he blurts out, then remembers himself, and adds, “please.”

“Geoff--”

“You can start any time. How about right now? Hey, while we’re at it,” he pulls out of Jack’s grip and steps outside, slinging an arm over the shorter man’s shoulders, “do you like venison? Walk with me, Jer, talk with me, Jer. Are we talking total coyote elimination here?”

Jeremy is visibly thrown by the onslaught of sudden, overwhelming enthusiasm towards the offer. He tries to answer, but Geoff seems to be willing to carry the conversation as they begin walking towards the back of the property, where the goats can already be heard. Geoff pulls the sturdy gate open and lets go of Jeremy to walk ahead. As soon as he lifts the small sliding front door of the chicken coop, a dozen or so Rhode Island Reds come pouring into the plot. A few of them curiously crowd the new stranger, pecking at Jeremy's boots and pulling his shoelaces. Geoff chuckles and gestures for Jeremy to follow him around the side of the coop, holding back his laughter as the younger man attempts to wade through the hens without stepping on any of them. It's a tedious process.

“They sure are friendly.”

“The ladies?” Geoff asks as he pulls a keyring out of his coat pocket. “Yeah, they're charmers. Great with little ones, too. The kids at the fair love 'em.”

He finds the key he's looking for while he speaks. A small, dull looking one. It takes a bit of jimmying to get it to turn in the rusty lock that holds shut the large door on the rear of the coop. Eventually it turns and clicks, letting Geoff pull it open, the key left in the lock. A few more chickens casually stroll out the new opening, already pecking at the ground for anything interesting. He steps into the coop and starts methodically checking nest boxes.

“So how does thirty a head sound? That's the pelt price around here.”

“What?”

Rolling his eyes, Geoff turns around to look at the man standing awkwardly outside the coop.

“For taking care of the coyotes. I can give you thirty dollars for every coyote you bring in. You can keep the pelts if you want, too.”

“Oh!” Jeremy perks up. “Yeah. Thirty is good. You said I can start soon?”

He goes back to checking the boxes. Quite a few hens are still in their own little spaces, having gone broody. They reluctantly let Geoff lift them to check under. He takes brown egg after brown egg, gently setting them in the basket he keeps on a shelf by the door.

“I should really talk about it with Jack more, but yeah. You can write your number down when we get inside.”

“Can't, actually. The cabin's line is disconnected.”

“Damn. Are you free Saturday afternoon? We can meet up at the Rooster.”

Gloria, one of the feistier ladies, pecks his hand a few times and raises a fuss when he takes the two eggs she's got hiding underneath her. He attempts to soothe the hen with gentle murmerings.

“Is that the place by the bank?”

“The very one.”

Once Gloria seems less peeved he makes his way back out of the coop, ducking under one of the low beams and grabbing the half full basket on his way out. Jeremy backs up so he can step down onto the dirt and close the door behind him, locking it once more. The key puts up a fight, trying to hold tight to the lock, not wanting to be shoved back in his coat pocket, evidently. He curses but gets it out with another hard yank. The jingling ring of keys is stuffed back in his coat.

“Yeah, I can meet you there Saturday.” Jeremy says as they walk towards a shed a little ways off. The squat building makes Geoff a bit ill to look at. That poor goat. There's still a smear of dark red stained along the bottom of the shed. His voice is a bit strained when he speaks, but Jeremy either doesn't notice or is polite enough to pretend he doesn't.

“Great. How's one? The lunch menu there is great. You can't visit Reuss City and _not_ eat there. The owner's from Jersey, too, and I'm sure you miss that northeast shit.”

Jeremy laughs and nods. “Sounds great.”

Geoff stops and leans against the shed, crossing his arms. He looks the man over again. Can't help but make a jab, especially since Jeremy seems the right type for it.

“I'm guessing you don't plan on scaring the coyotes away with your imposing height.”

“Hey, make jokes all you want, but I won't be the one hitting my head on branches like tall bastards like you.”

He grins.

“Whatever you say, Jerry.”

Jeremy rolls his eyes, but the smirk on his face remains.

“I should probably get going, Jeb.”

Chuckling, Geoff pushes himself off the shed and holds a hand out. Jeremy meets him halfway, firm and confident. There's a spark to both their eyes, Geoff glad to have someone who can solve his problems and play along in his prodding.

“Pleasure doing business with you, mister…?”

“Tapp. And you as well, mister…?”

“Ramsey.”

One more shake before they let go and Jeremy heads for the shitty red Chevy he arrived in. They wave to one another as he turns the thing on, engine whining at the strain, and sets off down the long dirt road that lays between impenetrable walls of oak and hickory. Geoff watches him go until he disappears around the bend, seemingly devoured by the forest. His grip on the basket of eggs tightens and he heads back inside. Jack is in the living room, controller in hand, but he looks away from the screen to raise an eyebrow.

“Glad to see stalker boy didn't kill you.”

“He's a nice kid. We're meeting him for lunch at the Rooster this Saturday.” He sets the basket on the kitchen counter and comes back to the living room, tilting his head at the screen.

“Is this the new one?”

“Yeah. _Ice Climber_. Wanna try?”

He frowns at the screen, noting all the platforms and obstacles.

“I'll pass. I suck at these ones.”

Jack nods and goes back to playing the game while Geoff watches, content. They're quiet for some time, but eventually the bearded man breaks the relaxed silence.

“Didn't know they even had coyotes in Boston.”


End file.
